


Santa Ana Winds

by howdyspacebuddy (eigengrau)



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cruelty to Hawaiian Pizza, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, PWP, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:59:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7129964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/howdyspacebuddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ritual of Pizza Friday sneaks up on Jackson with the insidious casualness of all domestic habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Santa Ana Winds

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as following on from "Hard Time Losin' Man," but it's not necessary to understand what's going on.

The ritual of Pizza Friday sneaks up on Jackson over the course of a few months, creeping into his schedule with the insidious casualness of all domestic habits. That’s just how these things happen: One day you’re a lone wolf, and the next you’re spending a solid seventy percent of your time with your business partner and his daughter. Jackson’s had fifty-two years of experience, but it still makes his head spin how quickly and easily things can change.  
  
It isn’t even like it’s the only night where he stays for dinner at the March’s place—he spends more time there than he does at his apartment these days—though they usually have the excuse of working on a case. Their lack of an office means that Holland’s living room mainly serves as their center of operations, and more often than not a long day tracking down leads and occasionally dodging near-death experiences ends with the two of them splayed out on the couch, a cigarette dangling off Holland’s lip and Jackson’s feet up on the coffee table.

But Pizza Friday has become A Thing, happening every week barring those when they’re in the middle of a case. It’s the one night when the three of them stay in, order a couple pies, and just hang. Jackson and Holland usually start out working, but then get distracted by whatever B-movie Holly’s watching on TV and abandon what they were doing.

Jackson suspects that Holly has somehow engineered the whole thing with out them noticing. Whatever the case, they’re getting more and more domestic, and Jackson can’t really bring himself to begrudge that. Things are good.

Except Holland loves Hawaiian pizza, which is an abomination against man and God and drives Jackson abso-fucking-lutely insane.

“How can you eat that stuff?” He asks, watching with disgust as Holland wolfs down a third slice. “It’s just… wrong.”

“Well, actually, it’s delicious, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Holland chases a massive bite of pizza with a gulp of his whiskey, then burps.

Holly is out at the drive-in to see some flick about singing teenagers in the 50s, and the two of them are alone for the evening. It’s hot for June, all the windows in the rental cracked open, and Vincent Price is cackling in period costume on the TV set. The whole thing feels so right and regular—it’s snuck up on them, this way of living, not really giving either of them a chance to question it.

Jackson lifts a soggy slice out of the box, frowning as the tip flops, weighed down by chunks of ham and pineapple. “Are you kidding? The sauce is dripping right off, the juice has soaked through the crust, there’s no kinda structural integrity—”

“ _Structural integrity_? Who died and made you the pizza expert?”

Jackson shoots him a dirty look. “I’m from New York, dumbass. I was born the pizza expert.”

Holland rolls his eyes and Jackson has to resist the sudden overwhelming urge to flick him in the ear. “Oh, right, of course. Everything’s better on the East Coast, blah, blah, blah…”

“Hardly. Why’d you think I came out here?” Jackson rolls his shoulders. “But when they make a pizza, it’s a real fuckin’ pizza, not bread with cheese and ketchup and _pineapple_ —”

“Man, pineapple is great, okay, it’s exotic, it comes from Hawaii—”

“Hawaii isn’t exotic! It’s a state! That’s like saying Minnesota is a far-away land of adventure.”

“Have you ever been to Minnesota? It might be!”

“Yeah, I think we both know it’s not.” Jackson snorts. “Jesus. No wonder Holly never lets you cook.”

“She’s right! Why would you let a guy with no sense of smell cook? She’d die of salt poisoning.”

“Smart kid.” Jackson’s gaze darts over to the clock on the wall. “When did she say she was gonna be home?”

“The movie doesn’t end ‘til eleven, and Jessica’s sister said she’d take them out for milkshakes afterwards.” Holland’s legs fall open and their eyes lock as he swallows down the last finger of Jim Beam. He waggles his eyebrows. It’s an attempt to be seductive, but, not entirely sober, it just makes him look surprised. “We’ve got a couple of hours.”

“Really.”

“Mm hm.”

“C’mere.”

Holland stands somewhat unsteadily and throws one leg over Jackson’s, settling onto his lap. Jackson gives a soft huff and his hands go, almost automatically, to rest on Holland’s hips.

Like Pizza Fridays, Jackson can’t entirely believe that casual mutual attraction is a thing that they do now (as casual as it can be when it’s as on the down-low as is humanly possible). They don’t talk about it, because Holland can barely articulate affection to anyone other than Holly, he’s so filled up with self-loathing most of the time, and Jackson wouldn’t honestly know what to say, anyhow. But they’re partners. They’re friends, Jackson wouldn’t hesitate to say, no matter how often Holland drives him absolutely up the fucking wall. The two of them make a good team—or the three of them, if you count Holly, which of course they sort of unofficially do. They’re making a difference, or at least trying to, and neither of them is going to mess with the fragile balance that their lives have taken on, even as the days go by and they slowly but steadily keep getting more and more caught up in each other.

Jackson’s thinking too much. Holland tilts his head up with one hand and kisses him.

“I said a couple of hours but really it’s more like ninety minutes.” He says, when they break apart. “So, y’know. Let’s get a move on.”

“Jesus, you’re fuckin’ impatient.” Jackson pops the top buttons of Holland’s shirt and pulls it off over his head. He presses a palm to Holland’s chest, reveling in the shiver that runs through him when he brushes fingertips over his ribs. He carefully avoids touching the gold ring that hangs around Holland’s neck. “Ever heard of foreplay?”

Holland shifts his hips and Jackson groans at the friction. “Sorry, what was that?” Holland smirks.

“You’re a menace.”

“Damn straight.” Holland clambers off, leaving Jackson breathing hard on the couch. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

They end up on Holland’s mattress with only a few detours to push up against a wall and make out, shedding their clothes on the way. Jackson presses Holland against the pillows, hands roving across hot skin as he bites kisses to his neck. Holland hooks one leg over Jackson’s waist, pulling them flush, both moaning at the contact. They’ve been doing this for a while now, but the novelty hasn’t worn off, and it doesn’t seem like it will anytime soon. Jackson reaches for the bedside table, yanking open the drawer and fumbling blindly for the half-empty bottle of lube nestled inside.

He pulls back from Holland and pops the cap, drizzling liquid into his palm. Holland stares at Jackson’s hands and bites his lip, already glossy and kiss-dark. Something hitches in Jackson’s chest to see him: Messy and gorgeous, hard cock pink and matching the flush high on his chest and cheeks. Jackson leans forward and kisses him, and Holland grabs his face in his hands, stubble scraping his palms, opening up for him.

Reaching in between their bodies, Jackson wraps a slick hand around Holland’s dick. He gives a little jolt and a whimper, eyes still closed, and Jackson can’t help but laugh against his mouth.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Holland sighs, muscles rippling between stiff and loose as Jackson strokes him. He bucks up into Jackson’s grip, moaning at the feeling of Jackson’s own hard cock pressed against his thigh. “Fuck, Jack—”

“What do you want?” It’s half dirty talk, half genuine question. Jackson likes knowing that he’s doing whatever’s going to get Holland off as efficiently and satisfyingly as possible, likes doing exactly the thing that’s going to get him most worked up. Half the pleasure is just seeing Holland fall apart and being there to guide him through it. He slows his hand for a moment, giving Holland a chance to catch his breath, to gather his thoughts.

Holland ducks his head, mouth just grazing the shell of Jackson’s ear and sending a shiver through his body. His breath is hot, his voice rough and a little unsteady. “I want you to fuck me,” he murmurs, almost like he’s afraid to say it.

Jackson’s breath catches in his throat, the same way it does every time, and the next thing either of them know Holland’s on his back with one leg thrown over Jackson’s broad shoulders, Jackson’s mouth on his cock as he works him open with two slick fingers.

Holland lets out a yelp as Jackson brushes over his prostate. “Holyshit,” he babbles, “holyshitholy _shit_ —”

Jackson swallows around the length of Holland’s cock, and Holland swats at the top of his head, smacking him ineffectively. Jackson opens his eyes and glances up at him, annoyed.

“You gotta stop for a sec,” Holland pants, and Jackson backs off immediately. Holland waves him forward, “No, no, I’m fine, I just—” he gathers his breath, “—I’m gonna come like, right now if you keep doing that.”

Jackson groans. “Jesus.” He's so hard he's amazed there's any blood left in his brain to control basic motor functions. "Are you-?

“I’m ready, come on—”

“You sure?”

“For fuck’s sake, Healy, just fuck me already!”

Jackson eases Holland’s leg down from where it’s thrown over his shoulder and takes hold of his hips, pulling him close. Holland arches his back, breathing raggedly as Jackson slides into him, filling him. He’s tight and hot around Jackson’s cock and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to just pound Holland into the mattress.

Instead, Jackson pulls out, then slowly pushes in, leaning back to watch. Holland looks wrecked, blonde hair plastered to his forehead and sweat beading on his chest, the gold ring glinting where the chain has pulled it up to curl around his collarbone. His mouth hangs open, red and wet, eyelids fluttering. Jackson’s never seen anything as beautiful. Man, they’re screwed.

He presses his forehead to Holland’s. “You okay?”

Holland nods shallowly. “Not gonna last much longer.”

“That’s alright.” Jackson strokes a hand up his side, along the curve of his ribs, as Holland sneaks a hand down between them to tug at his cock. He speeds up, thrusting in, groaning as Holland lets out a cross between a laugh and a sob when he brushes over his prostate. “I wanna see you come.”

“Fuck.” Holland swears, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck, Jack, right there—” His nails dig into Jackson’s shoulder and he lets out a whine as he comes, clenching tight around his cock. “Don’t stop—”

Jackson doesn’t, clutching hard at Holland’s hips as he lets go, pounding into him. Holland grabs hold of the headboard, knuckles going white, until finally Jackson drops his head to Holland’s shoulder and comes inside him with a muffled shout, hips stuttering.

They lie there, limbs tangled, sweat drying on their skin as they catch their breath. Jackson pulls out with a wince from both of them and grabs a box of Kleenex off the floor, tossing a handful of tissues to Holland. They roll over to avoid the wet spot and Holland fishes a cigarette out of the pack, lighting up and taking a long drag. Jackson rubs his thumb along the divot in Holland’s knee, a scar from a childhood bicycle accident, and listens to the soft synchronized tick tock of their watches.

“It’s nearly midnight.”

Holland makes a noise of acknowledgement. Jackson glances up. He can tell that Holland’s struggling not to fidget. He raises an eyebrow.

“You know it’s okay if you wanna get up.”

Holland lets out a breath. “Thanks,” he mutters, and stands, yanking on his jeans. Jackson watches him as he gets dressed, absently pulling on his own clothes. Holland turns to him, runs a hand through his hair. “Am I decent?”

“As you’ll ever be.”

“Ha ha.” He takes another drag, then stubs out the cigarette on the bedside ashtray. “I’ve gotta get some air.”

“Do you want to be alone?”

Holland considers it for a moment, then shakes his head.

They walk the block and a half away from the rental in silence. A Santa Ana breeze has been conjured up, forcing the June heat to ease. The scent of ozone and eucalyptus mingles with somebody’s jasmine plant, carried on the wind. They hop the fence and stand in the yard of where the March house once stood. A new frame has gone up, the foundation poured, though the structure isn’t even close to done. It’s like someone’s rough sketch of a house, empty and unfinished for now.

Holland stares at the structure, eyes fixed on every beam. Jackson knows that he has to force himself to be here, to confront it. It’s a process, the rebuilding. Building something new doesn’t mean forgetting the old; if there’s anything Jackson’s age has given him an advantage over Holland in, it’s knowing juicy tidbits of misery-learned life lessons like that.

“It’s looking good,” Jackson ventures. Holland nods, not looking entirely convinced.

“Holly’s excited.”

“I’ll bet.”

Holland shoots a look at Jackson over his shoulder. “It’s weird.”

“Yeah.”

“Really weird.” Holland gazes up at the building. “I mean, it helps that it’s not going to look exactly the same. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle that.” He rubs at his eye with one finger. “But I don’t want to let go of it. Is that weird? Should I be moving on? Should I take Holly and go to fucking Cleveland or something?”

Jackson shakes his head. “I think you’re doing okay.”

Holland squints at him, considers that for a long moment, nods. He turns back to the house. 

“I’ll take okay.”

A car’s headlights sweep over them as an orange Chevy drives past, towards the rental. The watch it head up the hill.

“That’ll be Holly.” Holland turns away from the house, and the tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. “We should head back.”

They round the corner just as Holly is getting out of the parked car. She waves as she catches sight of them; they wave back. “How was the movie?” Holland shouts.

“Pretty good!” She shouts back. “Can I get a leather jacket?”

Holland glances over to Jackson. “This is your fault.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, March.”

“Is there any pizza left?” Holly asks as they arrive at the top of the hill.

“Why don’t you go check in the fridge?” Jackson nudges her inside.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” she says, waving goodbye to Jessica and her sister. The three of them make their way inside, Jackson squeezing a hand on Holland’s shoulder as they cross the threshold. Holland smiles.

Friday night ghosts over into the small hours of Saturday morning, and the Santa Ana winds carry it with them.


End file.
